Just Wind Blowing Through
by Lady Jenna
Summary: Ephram's turn at parenthood.
1. more than zero but less than two

"Just Wind Blowing Through"

By: Lady Jenna

You ever notice how life moves a lot like a leaf falling from a tree? It twists and turns and spins in its place. Sometimes a strong wind comes along, and the leaf ends up some place, far, far away from where it intended to be. I've had a few strong gales in my lifetime. Most of them with curves and blonde hair, and legs that went all the way to the floor. 

I was such a fool in my youth. I know everyone says that, but I damn well mean it. My mom died when I was fourteen, shortly there after my dad, a man whose halo always darkened me, moved my sister and I to some small town in Colorado. It was a 'Leave it to Beaver' kind of a place. Needless to say, a move from New York City small town Colorado, did not expand the options of ways to spend my time. So, I did what most teenage boys do when they get so bored they count stitches in the couch, I fell in love. _There's_ something to regret. 

Her name was Amy Abbott, way back then it was. She smiled at me on my first day of school. She was beautiful, I was alone, ingredients for love at first sight. A dreaded disease. No cure…. So I fell in love, and after I fell, I was soon enlightened. She had a boyfriend, in a coma, and she wanted my dad's help. Oddly, I don't regret asking him to save her boyfriend. Colin, that was the boyfriend's name, he was a good guy, after some brain surgery, I mean. Anyway, when Colin came to, he and Amy were still in love, more than before. I was glad for them, I guess, sad for me, but, glad for them. To love and be loved by the same person, that's always something to be happy about, even if it's not for you. 

Anyway, years went by, we all grew up, and I moved back to New York City to go to school. I became a neurosurgeon, surprisingly; I got my father's gift for mind reading. Get it? Neurosurgeon, mind reading? Never mind…. Then, one day when I was studying for my Master's, I saw Amy on the street. I went over and talked to her. Two years later we got married. Another regret.

It was a huge wedding. Flowers, cake, a lot of white, small kids that swallowed things. She was happy, I was… happy. Three years later, we had a daughter. Julian Rose. She turns thirteen in a few weeks. Jesus, a teenager, and I won't be anywhere near her. You see, when Julian Rose was eight, Amy and I got sick of each other. I'm not sure how it happened, well, maybe I do; it happened slowly. Amy became, _uninterested _in me… and before any salacious thoughts enter your head, I don't mean in bed. Things in bed were fine, _nothing_ was wrong there. She seemed uninterested in me as a person. More interested, well, obsessive… in things like her public image as wife of a famous neurosurgeon. Yeah, I'm famous. Amy became Jackie Kennedy; only, I was no John Fitzgerald. So we got divorced. She got custody of Julian Rose, because I work so much and a bunch of other shit. I see Julian Rose at holidays and we drop each other a line every now and then. I used to call every week, but, that stopped. A year after the divorce, Amy and my daughter moved in with Colin, a year after that, the Amy Abbott that had become Amy Brown, became Amy Hart. Julian Rose is a still a Brown though, Amy tried to take that away from her, from me, but Julian Rose fought it, a true Brown. 

So that's the update on the life of Ephram Brown, Dr. Ephram Brown, actually. Well, a current update would be, I'm sitting in a bar, spinning a bottle of beer in my hand, watching as a whirlpool formed. It's kind of funny; a whirlpool is a force so great it can destroy ships, cities, almost anything near water. And here I am, creating this power with my own hand, safely inside of a cool bottle of beer. Maybe to God, the giant, killer whirlpools, are just in a bottle of beer. Though, of course… that might just be the idea of a guy whose had three beers, which, I have… Well what do you expect? My ex-wife and her husband are in Paris, planning my daughter's birthday, and I'm not in them. Sure I sent her something, some expensive gift with a card and flowers. I'd give almost anything to see her face when she gets them, but I have to save a four year old boy's life that day.

It's amazing how sons become their fathers. Well, amazing in a horrible, blood curdling kind of way. Keep in mind, I do love my father, it just took twenty years. I didn't want it like that; I wanted to be there for Julian Rose, for every day of her life. I wanted to cause every smile, and heal every tear. I wanted to be her father, and I wanted it to mean something good. But here I am, sitting in a bad smelling bar with a bunch of guys who don't even know what a neurosurgeon is, a thousand miles away from my daughter.

I'm forty-three now, and have less to show for my time then my father did. When my father was forty-three, he had a successful practice, a still loving wife, and two kids who, despite all outward appearances, really wanted him to be there. I have a practice, sure, but no wife, and a daughter who probably blames me for every bad thing that's ever happened to her. I would.

I remember, when Julian Rose was still a toddler, she'd refuse to go to school unless I took her. It was my lap she wanted to sit on, my hair she wanted to style. She paid more attention to me, gave more love to me, than she ever did to Amy. That's probably why, after the divorce, Amy got her as far away from me as possible. Amy used to be nice. She used to be caring and comfortable to be with. I really did used to love her, and I think she loved me back. But, she changed, or I changed, or both. Now every time she speaks to me, I can practically see the disdain pouring off of each and every word. Recently Amy told me that Julian Rose blamed me for the divorce. I don't know if that was true or not, but it hurt anyway. It wasn't so much as if someone had shot an arrow through my heart, it felt more like someone was pulling it out, doing even more damage, if that was possible. 

After a few beers I walked to my apartment. I didn't drive, even drunk I'm not that stupid, plus my place was only a few blocks away. Even at one in the morning the streets of New York City are loud and noisy, but maybe it's just amplified by the amount of alcohol in my blood. There certainly seems to be a ringing I don't remember hearing before. Anyway, in my apartment I just kick off my shoes and fall asleep on my bed, not bothering to get under my covers. The maid must have been in, my blankets smell nice.


	2. more than one but less than three

I'm not quite sure what time I woke up the next morning. It was Saturday, and I didn't have any appointments until Monday. That's one thing I did learn from my dad that's been helpful. Don't work weekends, holidays, or vacations. A few days isn't going to kill anyone who wasn't going to die already. Okay, so I've become a little, well, morbid, in my time. I'm allowed. If you save people and loose people under the same knife, you're allowed to me morbid from time to time. I am good at what I do, but I'm not my father. That's a fact I never thought I'd have to defend so much.

Anyway, even though I don't know when I woke up, I know why. The phone rang. I halfway felt like falling back to sleep, and halfway felt like throwing up. But, despite these two sides, I answered the damn phone. 

"Hello, Dr. Ephram Brown?" a male, French voice asked me, as if he were auditioning for a Soap Opera.

"No, it's Marcus Garvey," I replied.

"What?" he asked. I shook my head.

"Never mind. This is Dr. Brown."

"Oh, okay, well, this is a doctor from the Baptiste Hospital, in, Paris, France…" he told me, his voice dropping to a serious tone. 

"Yeah…" I told him, wanting the conversation over with so I could either fall asleep or throw up, whichever I decided to do.

"Yes, well, I regret to inform you, sir, that, well…"

"You're wasting my time here…" I warned him.

"Your wife is dead, sir…."

Okay, okay, so here's what happened. Some time last night, which, was in the morning for Paris, or, afternoon, whatever it is, I don't care, Julian Rose and Colin came home to find Amy on the ground, dead. After an autopsy, they found a brain tumor the size of a baseball in her head. She had never complained of anything more than a headache. Though, Colin and Julian Rose did say she had been acting irrationally lately. That would probably account for her telling me that Julian Rose blamed me for the divorce. Amy's funeral is in Everwood on Wednesday. I have an appointment that day but I'll have to cancel it. I have to go pick up my daughter.

I remember the last time I was in Everwood. It was right after Julian Rose was born. We took her there to show her to our folks. After the divorce Amy took her there again when her father died. I didn't go. Now I was the only parent Julian Rose had left, so she was coming to live with me. It's kind of ironic in a way. When I was around her age my mother died, only now, I'm taking Julian Rose from Everwood to New York City, and not the other way around.

Everwood never changes. No matter how many years go by, everything is the same. It even smells the same. I rented a room at the local hotel, nothing special, but enough so that a few hours after I made the reservation, every person in town knew I was coming. My dad and sister were there to greet me, anyway. My dad's hair and beard had slowly turned white through time, and now sat like a cloud on his head. I scratched my own five o'clock shadow as I looked over my sister's rounding stomach. She was six months pregnant with Amy's first niece. I never approved of her marrying Amy's dull older brother, but, ever since Delia became a teenager, she didn't even care what _I_ thought anymore.

The two showed me around town, pointing out the minor and pointless things that had changed in twelve years. It wasn't much of a tour. After that I went with my dad back to his place. We sat around and drank coffee, and talked about the last twelve years, and the last week. Mostly we talked about Amy's brain tumor in a purely medical way, like she had never been my wife or his daughter-in-law. Also, I spent most of the time trying to stop his Great Dane from sitting on my lap. The dog was by no means young, but Dad said that whenever he met somebody new, which isn't often in Everwood, he acts just like a puppy. His name was Finsen, after a Danish physician. 

"So why aren't you staying here for your trip? Your room is still there, it's not a library or anything," Dad asked me. I nodded.

"I know it isn't, I just thought it'd be better getting a hotel room. Less permanent," I explained. He nodded. 

"Alright then. Do you know when Julian Rose and Colin are arriving?"

"Tomorrow. They're flying with the casket," I said and, for some reason, with those words, it finally hit me that Amy was dead. I bit my lower lip and scratched my chin a little. I'd have to shave for the funeral.

"Do you have a room in New York for her?" 

"Yeah. A big one, thick walls, plenty of privacy and no fire escapes for her to sneak out on," I said. He nodded in approval.

"Good. Now you know she'll be upset and quiet for the first few months…."

"She'll be me thirty years ago…" I said and he laughed, shaking his head.

"What are you planning to do for her birthday?" he asked me. I sighed and took a long sip of my luke warm coffee.

"Work. I have a four year old boy whose been in a come for two months."

"She's not going to like that."

"She'll understand."

"Will she?"

"She's smarter than I was, Dad."

"Maybe, but it's her thirteenth birthday in a new city where she doesn't know anyone."

"There are some kids in my building."

"They're not her friends, though."

"I suppose I could buy theatre tickets for that night."

"I doubt that'll be enough…" he said and I fell silent, in thought. Realistically, Julian Rose will still be upset about Amy's death, she won't even care it's her birthday. Unrealistically, I should contact the family of her best friend in Paris, see if she could come to NYC for the weekend. I'll have to talk to Colin about it, see what he knows. 

Colin and Julian Rose were going to spend their time in Everwood with Amy's mother. When they arrived Rose, Amy's mother, called my cell phone and I walked over. With the exception of a new coat of paint, the Abbott residence looked the same. I noticed the handicap rental car in the driveway and walked up to the front door. I rang the bell and Colin answered.

After a good number of surgeries, Colin had eventually lost the use of his legs, and was confined to a wheelchair. That hadn't changed his personality much, he was still a fun guy. Despite everything between Colin and I, we were friends. There was no resentment from us toward the other, at least, not on my side. I can't speak for him. 

"Hey, Ephram," he said, wheeling backward so I could enter the house and close the door behind me. After Dr. Abbott died, the house's interior was different, well, not in looks, but it smelled different. 

"Hi Colin. Where's Julian Rose?" I asked him. He nodded toward the kitchen.

"In the kitchen with Rose," he told me, a frown on his face telling me Julian Rose was not doing well. I nodded my thanks and walked toward the kitchen.


	3. more than two but less than four

I heard her voice before I saw her. It had been a few years since I had seen Julian Rose. I think the last time was three Christmas' ago, so, almost four years. She had been nine then, and her voice high in both pitch and spirit. Now her voice was lower, both in pitch and spirit. I stepped around a corner into the kitchen and saw Rose and Julian Rose sitting at the kitchen table, talking. Rose was on the side facing my direction, so when she saw me she stopped talking and looked in my direction. Julian Rose, whose back had been to me, turned and saw me. At first, I saw a bit of Amy's fierceness in her brown eyes, but that was soon consumed by the look of depression she had inherited from me. She had Amy's eye shape, but it was me that definitely shone out from behind them. She had Amy's nose and chin, but my mouth and eyebrows. Her hair was a rough brown like mine too. If she stood next to Amy, you'd know she was Amy's daughter, but if she stood next to me, the same could be determined. There was definitely my spirit glowing out of her, she even had my sense of humor. But now, for this moment, we just stared at each other, no brilliant words of greeting or urges to hug each other coming to either of us.

"How was the trip?" I finally managed to ask. Julian Rose nodded.

"It was okay," she said in the same low voice that she spoke to Rose with, only now there was an element of shyness to it. 

"That- that's good. How are you, Rose?" I asked, moving my eyes from my daughter to my ex-mother-in-law. 

"I'm holding up."

"That's all anyone could ask. How are you, Julian Rose?" I asked, a little nervously.

"Confused," she replied and my own confusion grew to such a large degree I could no longer hide it from my face.

" 'Confused?' " 

"I'm confused why my father is a neurosurgeon, and my mother dies of a _brain_ tumor!" she yelled and ran from the room. I let out a loud sigh and lowered my head to look at the floor. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, where my skull turned into cartilage. It was definitely me behind her eyes. 

I stood in front of my hotel mirror picking tiny bits of lint off my black suit and tie. When we had been married, Amy wouldn't let me go outside unless my clothes were lintless. I know that isn't a word, but I don't feel like coming up with something that is real but makes less sense. I thought, for some reason, that if my suit was clean for her funeral, she'd know I would never forget her, and would try to pass some aspects of her to Julian Rose, if I could.

Julian Rose…. I know very well that look on her face when she said those things to me. She didn't blame me, not at all. I knew that, she knew that. She needed someone to blame though, and her now living with me was pulling her away from her friends, so I was the most likely target. It made sense, it was perfectly logical. In the past four years she's severed enough strings from me to feel comfortable in blaming me for Amy's death. It is a logical thing for her to do, I'm proud of her for coming to that conclusion; it was the best decision. So why do I feel like shit?

It was probably the look in her eyes. I don't mean the me that was behind them, but the Amy that was in front of them. Amy had always contained the ability to look at me, and make me feel like an A-bomb had just exploded inside of me. She must have passed that down to Julian Rose. Why that of all things? Probably because it's the most effective thing I've ever seen. Amy should have become a lawyer; she'd win every case. I'd say the same thing about Julian Rose, but I try not to set up something in my mind that'd I'd like her to become. Whatever she does become, I don't want to be disappointed in it. I want to back her in anything she wants to do, with no hidden disappointments. I suppose some day I should try and tell her that. Dammit. 

I glance over at the red numbers on the hotel room digital clock. Clocks like that haven't been made in twenty years. Another sign of Everwood's journey into the present. Amy's wake began fifteen minutes ago. It'll take me about ten minutes to get there, then I'd stay for the funeral, which was in an hour. Jesus, Amy's funeral. That gives me a foul taste in my mouth. She had always been so full of life. Yet, as sorry as I feel for the loss of Amy's life, it's Julian Rose that I feel sorry for the most. Walking in and finding her mother laying lifeless on the ground. That must... what a feeling…. I have no horrible image of my mother burned into my mind, not like Julian Rose. That day will haunt her, forever. I should probably get myself ready for nightmares and random fits of crying. I need to buy a lot of tissues. Nice and soft ones, not the cheap kind. 

I walked kind of shyly into the very large room. Despite the size of it, only the front half of the room was occupied, because that's where the open casket was. Incisions had been made on the back of Amy's head where they found the tumor, so when laying on her back, as she was, you couldn't see the informative threads. What do you think about a man who walks into his ex-wife's wake, and the first thought that comes to him is brain surgery?

When a group moved away from the casket, I walked over to it and looked down at her. In four years she had cut her hair so it came down just to her chin. When I first saw her, it had come to the small of her back. That was almost thirty years ago. The makeup that had been placed on her face was the type of makeup she would never wear, and the solemn expression plastered there was an expression she would never wear. I sighed deeply and bowed by head.

"Elmaley rachamim shochen bamromim, Hamtzey menucha nechona tachat kantey hashchina, Bemaalot kdoshim uthorim kezohar Harakeea mazhirim, et nishmat Amy Hart Shehalach shehalcha lolama, Baavur shenadvoo tzedaka Bad hazkarat nishmata, Bgan ayden thay menuchata, Lachen baal harachamim yastireha Bseter knafav lolamim Vyitzror bitzror hachayim Et nishmata, Adonai hu nachalata, vtanuach bshalom Al mishkava, Vnomar. Amen," I said and looked up at her. I sighed again.

"What was that?" a voice asked from next to me. I looked down and saw Julian Rose standing there, looking at her mother's lifeless face, her cheeks red from a thousand tears.

"The Mourner's Kaddish, well, part of it. It asks God to protect her soul," I told her. By now, I was an Atheist, but it was still tradition. Amy was Catholic, not Jewish, but, my mom believed it did something, and I knew it, so it couldn't hurt. Julian Rose nodded her head, still not looking at me.

"I'm sure Mom appreciates it," Julian Rose told me. I sighed slightly, so she couldn't hear it, and looked back at Amy.

"If I had known, nothing could have kept me from helping her. I would have given _anything_…" I reassured her. Julian Rose bit her lower lip, holding back tears.

"Yeah, I know…" she said. At that moment, a moment that may never come again, all was right between us.


	4. more than three but less than five

It was good weather, so the funeral was outside. I sat alone in the back row, not really listening to the Priest or the birds that made an ironically happy tune from their throat, in attempts to create new life. I was really only paying attention to one thing. The sound of Julian Rose's crying. She was six rows in front of me, and surrounded by dozens of other crying mourners, but for some reason, she was the only one I could hear. It was like I could hear every tear hitting the strong green grass as well as I could feel a pin being shoved into my abdomen. I didn't cry at my mother's funeral, well, I didn't weep. I do remember wiping away a few stray tears.

What a thing my life has been. So many twists and turns, so many questionable memories. To think of what I once was, a purple haired sarcastic punk, to what I am now, a single neurosurgeon with a thirteen year old daughter to raise. Time is a cruel dance partner, and she's stepped on my toes more times than I care to remember.

The ceremony is over and Amy's body is lowered under the earth. I can see Delia holding her husbands hand tightly in her's, with her other hand placed protectively on her stomach. Even from this distance I can see tears rolling down Bright's face. Rose is crying with a handkerchief plastered to her face. Colin bites his lower lip so hard it's a deep, dark, red. Everyone gets into a line, and throws a rose onto the coffin before choking down tears and moving on. I glanced down at the white rose laying on the seat next to me. 

I look up again and see that everyone has left except for the men filling in Amy's grave, and Julian Rose, who hasn't moved from her seat in the first row. Once the men are finished filling in the grave, and smoothen the dirt with the back of their shovels. I picked up the rose next to me and walked up next to where Julian Rose is sitting. Now the two of us are the only two in the large, barren cemetery. It's completely silent, save the wind blowing through the leaves of the trees and through the ribbons on Amy's flowers. Even the birds are strangely silent. I close my eyes and feel the wind blow against my face. I remember the first time I heard Amy's voice say my name, the first time she told me she loved me, and the feel of her lips on mine. I place my hand of Julian Rose's shoulder.

"Come on, there's nothing for us here any more," I tell her softly. She takes my hand, stands up, and together we walk to the foot of Amy's plot. She throws her red rose onto the smoothened dirt, and wraps her arms around my stomach, crying on my lint free black suit. I squeeze my eyes closed and finally, a single tear falls from each eye and collects at my chin. I place the white rose to my nose, take one last smell to remember Amy by, and throw it on the grave.

I fold the newspaper I'm reading back into its original, space efficient pattern, and hold it in my lap. I close my eyes and rest the back of my head on the top of the airplane headrest. I let out a long sigh and look out of the little, oval shaped window that lets me have a view of the tiny world beneath me, the world pulling me down to it. I turn away from the black world to my daughter, who's asleep in the seat next to me. She snores slightly but I don't mind, as long as she's not having nightmares I'm fine with anything. 

I've already gotten her into a good school, the one I went to when I was her age. I had hated it then, but when I look back on it now, it was a pretty decent school. One of the few private schools that doesn't enforce uniforms. I've also had my maid set up a room for her, and fill the refrigerator and cupboards with Julian Rose's favorite foods, according to Colin. Julian Rose has a majority of her clothes with her, but the rest of her things will be arriving in a few days. She won't be going to school for a week, so she'll have time to settle down. The school is aware of, everything, so for the first few weeks they'll understand if Julian Rose doesn't come to school or runs from the classroom in tears. I've also had my secretary inform my appointments not to be surprised if I cancel on short notice. A lot of them are parents, so they understand perfectly. At least, that's how my secretary told me they reacted…

We arrived at my apartment very late, so I showed Julian Rose her room and she fell asleep immediately. I sat at the bar for a few hours, drinking from a glass of bourbon and watching the either really late or really earlier news, depending on your point of view. Since I had been up for awhile, I considered it really late. That's one thing about the whole 'is the glass half empty or half full?' thing. It all depends on whether you're adding to it or taking away. 

I rolled out of bed, literally, at about noon the next morning. Jetlag, bourbon, one of them let me sleep. I thank it, whichever one it is. I pulled a bathrobe on, scratched my head, and walked downstairs. I heard Julian Rose's voice, laughter, and I followed it toward the kitchen. What I found surprised me, but, on back thought, it shouldn't have. Julian Rose had her knees on a stool and was leaning on the kitchen counter, a bowl of some cereal in front of her. Her attention was not on the cereal, however, but on the woman leaning against the stove, talking to her, and keeping a smile on her face. The woman saw me.

"Ah, the living dead!" the woman exclaimed. Julian Rose turned and smiled at me.

"Dad, did you really sing Beatles at last year's Christmas party?" Julian Rose asked me, trying not to laugh. I do appreciate the effort. 

"Yeah, well, _someone_ got me very drunk," I said walking over to the coffee machine and pouring myself a mug, with a glance at the woman. I turned to the woman who was smiling at me. I turned back to Julian Rose.

"What kind of stuff has Lulu been telling you?" I asked her.

"All kinds of embarrassing stuff," the woman told me. Julian Rose looked at us confused.

"Why do you call her 'Lulu?' " 

"Why do I call you that?" I asked her.

"I always assumed it's because you're the devil," she replied. I nodded and turned to Julian Rose, hoping that would be a fair reply for her. 

Lulu is actually Lois Shannon; she's my assistant. Actually, she was supposed to be my secretary. It put an ad in the paper, (something no longer done often), and she showed up. She was perfectly qualified for a secretarial position, but she also had a doctorate in neurosurgery. So, I hired her, and instead of calling her my 'secretary,' I call her my 'assistant.' She pretty much does secretary stuff, but she just seems to deserve the assistant title. Besides, sometimes, when I study a case very hard and can't come up with something, she brings in a fresh viewpoint and helps out. 

The reason Lulu has a key to my place is because a few years ago I went on a little, _binge_…. Well, the end result is, Lulu tried to get into my apartment and couldn't, and I almost died. So, she demanded a key from me, in that, forceful, obligatory kind of way. Ever since then, I kind of can't operate without her. Well, I can, in the operation room, but not in real life…. Yeah….


	5. more than four but less than six

The reason Lulu stopped by, the reason she gives anyway, is simply a worry about how we were getting on. She knew that in my past I've been known to be, less that sensitive… She wasn't sure if Julian Rose would use me as a crying pillow or punching bag. I wasn't about to tell her Julian Rose's cutting remark in the Abbott kitchen. 

Julian Rose went up to her room, and, as a new parent of a preteen, I figured it best not to ask what she'd be doing. When I heard her door slam I turned to Lulu, who was cleaning up the dishes. I shook my head.

"Now when do I pay you to clean up after me?" I asked her. 

"_Every_ check. You make me write them out, remember? If I need a raise I give it to myself," she replied. I shook my head, a small smile lifting the corners of my mouth. Lulu had an odd quirkiness to her. She was forty; dark brown eyes, and brown hair. Once last month I noticed a gray hair at her temple, but I didn't mention it to her. She acted like a responsible kid most of the time; she made it kind of contagious. 

"Isn't that _illegal_?" I asked her. She turned to me, the look on her face showed she knew I was kidding.

"Do you mind?"

"No."

"Well than it's not a crime. Things are only considered crimes when they piss somebody off," she explained. I nodded and walked into the living room. 

One wall of the three walls the made up the living room was made of glass. It over looked the New York City skyline at a good angle, I thought. I looked down at my coffee cup. The liquid was still so warm I could feel the waves of coffee flavored heat rising up to me. My other had was in one of the pockets of my green bathrobe, my fingers had found a loose thread and was playing with it. I sighed and looked out the window again and the dankness of the skyline. 

Sometimes, that view can be beautiful, and not just at night. Sometimes the size of it and the fact that it goes as far as the eye can see, almost makes it seem like a view of a forest from a mountaintop. A true concrete jungle. Though, on other days, the grays and blues of it, that smell of smoke, well, other things, can just become so depressing. Like a ship in a bottle. I've always found those depressing. So much work, so much time, and the only thing that comes from it is this untouchable object that was designed to move, but never can, something where every part was made to cut through waves and almost fly, never able to move. Never getting to do what you were made for, I find that very depressing. 

I heard Lulu walk up behind me and to my side. She said nothing, just stared out the window with me. I did have to wonder if she thought it was beautiful or depressing. I like to think of Lulu as having no sad thoughts, but being in a constant state of joy. I know it's unlikely, or, impossible, but it's still a thought I like to hang on to. I sighed again.

"How am _I_ going to raise a child?" I asked her.

"With a wing and a prayer…" she replied. I knew that was a joke. She knows I'm an atheist, and I know she's one too. 

"Seriously…" I urged her. She raised an eyebrow.

"Seriously? She's twelve; all of the hard work is over. You just have to make sure she doesn't pierce anything or do anyone," she told me. I sighed and cracked my neck by turning my head sharply to the side.

"Why do you have to say things like that?"

"Because I'm the devil's assistant.…"

Since it had been a good amount of years since Julian Rose's last time in New York City, I took her sight seeing. It is true; the only time people who live in NYC go to the Statue of Liberty and so on is when they have company over. She had asked to be seen the sights, but while we were out she didn't seem to enjoy it very well. And, it's odd, I think I know the reason why. When we were staring out the top of the Statue of Liberty, I could read her thoughts very well. 'I wish Mom was here.' That's what she thought. And, while I saw that look on her face, I wished Amy was here too, if only to make Julian Rose complete again. 

When we got home she rushed up to her room and closed the door. If I didn't do something I knew I'd just imagine her on her bed, crying. So, I called my Dad. Maybe if I talk shop I'd stop thinking about Julian Rose's tears. After three rings he finally picked up. He must have been cooking. Ever since my mom died, my father has tried to improve his chef skills. They were quite good by the time I left for college, that was 26 years ago, and he's still getting better.

"Hello, Andy speaking…" he said. I bit my lower lip as a mannerism built over a lifetime. 

"Hi, Dad. It's Ephram…."

"Well I'd hope so. Wouldn't want some other man calling me 'dad.' How can I help you?" he asked me in the way Andy Brown always asks it. Even for his son it doesn't change. I'm not sure if that is bad for me or good for other people….

"I just… wanted to tell you that I took Julian Rose sight seeing today."

"Oh? Did she enjoy it?"

"Not really…" I confessed as I sat down on the couch, with a quick glance out the window at the now depressing skyline.

"Amy?" Dad asked in his newly formed, understanding way. I let out a loud sigh he could hear a thousand miles away.

"Yeah…. I have no idea what to do. I ask her if there's anything I can do, I try to get her mind off it the best I can, but mostly I just leave her alone…."

"That's about all you can do. Losing a parent isn't easy; you know that as well as she does. But whatever you do, don't move to a small town in Montana or something, she probably wouldn't enjoy that," Dad told me. I chuckled slightly. 

"Yeah, that probably wouldn't be appreciated. Though, it doesn't _always_ turn out badly…" I reminded him. I could tell, even though I couldn't see him, that he was smiling.

Some twenty years ago, my father and I had a talk. It was a long talk, an all through the night kind of talk. And, among the many discussions, I forgave him for making us move to Everwood. I had forgiven him long before that, I knew, but, there was just something in actually saying it, something in letting him know. It's hard to explain, it's a father/son kind of thing. I thought it was odd then and I continue to do so, how one sentence, one, simple sentence, said only once, by one person, can relive so many years of pain and pressure. One sentence can make everything good again. Hell, it made everything _better_ then it was before!


End file.
